“Not feeling what?” She raises just one perfectly shaped eyebrow. It’s an exclamation point on her well-practiced judgmental look.
“This.” I throw my arms out, gesturing around the space. I look over to see a group of people heading toward the big hangar door, getting ready to load a plane. Some have a skip to their step, but it’s clear by the rigid posture of one particular man that this is his first time. I’d love to tell him that it’s not half as scary as it seems, but even after jumping many times, I’m currently struggling myself.
Chelsea’s eyes go wide, the one eyebrow rising even higher, and I could put money on what she’ll say next. “But it’s what Mom wanted,” she says, sounding exasperated.
Yep. Those were the exact words I knew would come out of her mouth.
“I realize that.” I hold back an eye roll.
“So then, what’s your problem?
I look to the side, away from Chelsea’s penetrating gaze.
“I just feel … anxious. Like something could happen … to you, or Dad, or Devon, or me.”
Chelsea moves to sit next to me and puts an arm around my shoulders. She has the ability to go from judgmental to compassionate in a split second. It’s impressive. The comforting gesture, combined with my still-churning stomach, makes tears well up in my eyes.
“Mags, it’s going to be fine.”
“I know,” I say, adding a sniffle. “I was totally on board until we got here. I’m just—maybe I’m not ready or something.”
“Ready for what?” my dad asks. He’d been standing some feet away from us engrossed in something on his phone, the white cylinder urn filled with my mom’s ashes tucked under his arm. I hadn’t realized he’d moved closer to us. Now he’s looking at me with concern in his blue eyes, deep crow’s-feet in the corners. Chelsea has his eyes, minus the crow’s-feet. Devon too. I got my mom’s green ones.
“Maggie’s having second thoughts about the jump,” Chelsea says.
“Oh, Magpie.” My dad uses the nickname he’s called me since I can remember. He takes a seat on my other side, setting the urn next to him. He’s wearing a black jumpsuit with gray detailing. He wraps an arm around my waist. I’m now in a very public family sandwich. I just need Devon to come over here and pull us all in a big hug. Not that Devon would ever do that.
I feel my dad reach up and run his hand down my ponytail, then he tugs lightly on my dark-brown locks. I may not have gotten his eyes, but I did get his hair, except that his is now mostly gray.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
“I feel … anxious, I guess.”
“We don’t have to do this today,” he says.
My heart skips a tiny beat at this idea, and the churning in my stomach starts to slow.
“What?” Chelsea says, sitting tall next to me, her back rigid. “We have to.”
“Why?” Dad asks. “There’s no rule.”
“But it’s—”
“Your anniversary,” I finish Chelsea’s sentence for her. My shoulders slump, and a weight drops inside my gut.
“So what?” my dad says.
“Well … I mean … I …” Chelsea trails off, and I feel her stiff posture falter next to me.
Today, February eighteenth, would have been thirty-three years for my parents. That’s why we picked this date. It has significance. My parents had a marriage for the ages. Something I’ve hoped my whole life to find. They met through mutual friends when my mom was twenty-four and my dad was twenty-six. It was love at first sight, according to my dad; my mom needed a little more convincing. It didn’t take much, because they were married less than a year later.
All my life, I’ve had this movie in my mind of being walked down the aisle by my dad and looking over to see my mom crying tears of joy. I’ve dreamed of this since the day I decided boys were no longer gross and smelled like sweaty feet. Well, sometimes they still smell like sweaty feet—I’m just able to overlook it.
But my mom didn’t even get to see me in a long-term relationship. Not anything that went beyond six months. I’ve never really been in love, I’m pretty sure. At twenty-six, my dating history has been sparse, to say the least.
I realize I’m still young, and I hopefully have a lot of life ahead of me, but my wish to have what my parents had looks so far away, it seems unobtainable.
So far my parents’ relationship has only rubbed off on Chelsea, who, at nearly twenty-nine, is married and has two kids. The most adorable girls in the world, in my doting-aunt opinion.
Devon seems to be more on my track. Only he’s too big of a player to look for anything lasting. He’s a year and a half younger than me, so he’s old enough that it’s starting to be concerning.
“I don’t care about dates,” my dad says. “We can do this anytime.” He runs a hand up and down my back.
“I think we should just do it today,” Chelsea says. “We’re already here.”
“Not if Maggie isn’t feeling it.”
“Why’s everyone sitting here?” Devon asks, walking toward us, the top half of his jumpsuit unzipped and hanging around his hips, the arms swinging back and forth as he approaches. He’s got a white T-shirt on that shows off all the time he spends in the gym.
“Maggie doesn’t want to jump,” Chelsea says.
“I didn’t say that.” I whip my head toward her.
“Oh, sorry.” She purses her lips. Her eyes move to Devon. “She’s ‘not feeling it.’” She uses air quotes for the last part.
“I don’t sound like that,” I say, referring to her whiny imitation of me. “And only old people use air quotes.”
Chelsea’s mouth drops. “I’m not old!”
“Girls,” my dad says, his voice chastising.
“What’s going on, Mags?” Devon asks, his eyebrows pulled so low they hood his blue eyes. “Why are you freaking out? You were fine in the car on the way here.”
“I’m not freaking out,” I say defensively. “I’m just having second thoughts.”
“Why? We’ve jumped out of a plane plenty of times. You know what Mom says about jumping—”
“It’s safer to jump out of a plane than to get behind the wheel of a car,” I say, finishing the quote my mom pulled out when people couldn’t understand why this was a family pastime of ours. It wasn’t like a weekly thing or anything. But it was often enough that it caused concern for some people.
“Exactly,” Devon says, a smug smile on his lips.
“I know all that. I just … I can’t shake this feeling.” I look down at the floor.
“So we’ll wait,” Dad declares, his tone carrying a finality to it.
“No,” Chelsea protests loudly.
He holds out a hand to Chelsea. “If Maggie isn’t feeling like doing this now, then we’ll wait for another day when she is.” He picks up the urn in his hands, his eyes perusing it reverently.
Devon holds out a hand toward my dad. “We’re already here. If Mags doesn’t want to do it, I’ll do it. Give me Mom.” He flexes his fingers back and forth at my dad.